


Irene - La Petite Mort / Before

by Roofie



Category: Drive (2011)
Genre: Angst, Car Sex, F/M, Irene POV, PWP, Porn, Romance, sad sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26192422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roofie/pseuds/Roofie
Summary: Lives are sometimes a series of bad choices leading you to moments like these. Sitting in the middle of nowhere in particular, saying nothing, and still communicating everything that's important. But then... it's time to make more choices and move beyond your moment.I choose to rub the cuffs of my cardigan between my fingers and thumbs, then climb into the back seat. This might be another one of those bad choices, but it could also be the best one I make in my life... Isn't this nugget of warmth in my heart, for a quiet, endearing man, worth the gamble? Just once?
Relationships: Driver/Irene Gabriel
Kudos: 8





	Irene - La Petite Mort / Before

"That was my husband's lawyer. He'll be home in a week..."

How can I explain to anyone these thousand different silences? Put into words how they've made me feel over the last few weeks? Content, desired, complimented, aroused, cared for. How do I describe the way his silence, right now, feels like a hole in my gut? He shifts the car into gear and keeps on driving.

What is there to say? What can we do but sit in silence? Some slither of happiness, some semblance of hope, is dying with each passing streetlamp. In a week I will be a wife to a man I've forgotten how to yearn for. In a week I'll go back to living with the mistakes of youth. In a week...

I recognise the route he's taking, and wince when I hear my voice crack, "We're going home?"

Faster than I want, faster than I can think, our apartment building has slid into view. I don't want to go home, not under this silence. I don't really care where we might go, just someplace away from that week coming my... _our_ way. The road twists, though, and we're headed inside. A lamppost's dim light and the city's silhouette gets shut away behind us. The overhead fluorescence reflecting instead off of slick poured concrete.

The silence is deafening as he puts the car into park and twists the key, the engine dies. He has put himself, us, in the darkest and quietest corner... Or at least that's what it feels like. Am I being swallowed up by my own shadows? He hasn't looked at me once. Studying his own hands as I keep wanting to stare at him, his silence is simply sad.

Should I tell him how I dread my life? That riding in his car, quiet and companionable, has been more meaningful to me than a single phone call with Standard has been in years? Somehow, when he finally looks up at me, meets my eyes here in the dark and still says nothing, I know my own silence has explained everything for me.

Lives are sometimes a series of bad choices leading you to moments like these. Sitting in the middle of nowhere in particular, saying nothing, and still communicating everything that's important. But then... it's time to make more choices and move beyond your moment.

I choose to rub the cuffs of my cardigan between my fingers and thumbs, then climb into the back seat. This might be another one of those bad choices, but it could also be the best one I make in my life... Isn't this nugget of warmth in my heart, for a quiet, endearing man, worth the gamble? Just once?

I catch him looking at me in the rear view mirror but he doesn't move, doesn't speak, just goes back to studying his own fingers with a miserable hunch to his back. Do I seem petulant? Like a woman in denial? I don't care. I reach around the driver's seat and take one of his hands. I pull, and he follows. We sit for so long, side by side, only able to see each other in the sparsest of distant lights. At some point, his thumb strokes my knuckles, and I think I know what he's trying to say: ' _it's okay, that we had just this, so glad we had even this_ '.

His skin smells like engine grease and well-kept leather. His palm as it opens is rough, work-worn, scarred here and there. I stroke the marks and want to cry for how he so quietly watches me. I guide his fingers, let him trace my jawline, stroke all the way up to my ear; the sound of his skin against mine in this silence is so... my hair stands on end.

"Irene?" What is that tone? Hurt, resigned, tired, wanting?

It's so quick, the decision I come to. I pull up my skirt, so stupid and long, and crawl over - settle into his lap. The dim light catches his eyes, so lovely and wide as I squeeze the leather of seats beside his ears. He licks his lips and that surprised look softens as he studies my body through clothes. I've never been this close. He doesn't touch me, but it gives me gooseflesh over my thighs anyway. You see, I've caught him looking at me like that once or twice, when he didn't know I knew he was looking. It was something he hid, albeit poorly, because this was my move to make. So much of his silence says something. Even that one.

His hands rub against the seats, slowly, as though distracting his fingers from what they want to do - and that aches in me. His jeans are warm against my skin, rough underneath my bum. I can trace his collar bone as it disappears under his shirt, and catch myself before I touch him. Instead I move to take off my cardigan, and he shifts to shadow my touch, helping me slide it away - wool against cotton - like he's politely taking my coat. Between us he folds it carefully, a perfect little bundle of store bought knitwear, and bundles it up against the car the door. 

Eyes linger there, for a beat, maybe two, before he looks back up at me. His eyebrows pull together in a question he can't form and I can't answer in any other way than by taking his wrist and leading his palm to, and then up my thigh. He follows, then leads. His wrist disappearing underneath the folds of my skirt, he grips my side with the hand I didn't take and rises up into my space. His breath on my face is warm, but his features are shadowed by my body getting in the way of the light.

A thumb rubs under my breast over the t-shirt I'm in, and I move to undo my bra; it's an old practiced trick any woman knows, hook snapped, straps pulled, out through the sleeve. Even in such a tight a space as this, it's as easy as slip-on shoes. I can feel him running the hem of my underwear between his fingers as he watches me do it, side to side, and my stomach knots. Our eyes meet, and my hips rise towards the touch without much permission from me. For my part I settle quivering hands onto his shoulders.

That thumb is back, then, doing slow and sensual work, making my nipple hard through fabric. I can't stop my body moving in close, but I also admit I wouldn't have tried. He's near enough for me to feel the heat of his tongue as it darts out from between his lips, spitting his toothpick aside. I stroke his neck, and cup his cheeks, trace the underside of his ears as he looks up at me. What is that expression? Is he curious? Awed? Is that lust on his features? Reverence?

"Irene..." Nothing like Standard.

Hurried but smooth, he pushes down the waistband of my underwear and slides two fingers up into me slowly - shallow and testing. My lips spread and my breath hitches - his fingers are colder than my core - and I'm wet already. He knows that now. The smile that swims across his features... it's louder than any moan. I lift to let him twist is wrist, and rub his thumb down the line of me. He picks up some of my juices and brings the digit back to circle my clit. God. What a shiver. It's never the same as your own hand.

He plays with me slowly, carefully, my body rocking with his motions. His eyes on mine until I can't watch his face anymore, and I have to shut out the sight as my head rolls back. His fingers inside me are warm now, and sticky, making a steady beat as he takes them in and out. His nose skitters over my offered neck, and his breath is heavy as his hair coils against my knuckles. The scruff of his shirt creaks in my fist as he pulls my stomach in closer. His jeans begin to tent and tighten, I can feel it happen, and he makes the smallest of strangled sounds. 

My lip between my teeth feels alien and thick as I reach between us to unbuckle his belt. I work down his fly and, following my lead, he lifts up his hips so that I can pull everything down. He's hot in my hands, and as I close my fingers around him, begin my gentle squeeze, pump him slowly, his head rocks back against the seat. The panting breaths he makes are as intoxicating as his smell, and I mirror him; run my nose over his exposed throat.

Everything gets fast after that, as I pull his shirt up a little, and press my palm against his twitching stomach. He grips my neck and hugs me in tight to his shoulder, buries his face against my collar. His fingers are quick, and he's pushing in deeper, rubbing as he goes. His thumb on my clit is so heavy it sings. It's all I can do to match his pace with my hand. He makes my hips rock, and my thighs shake as his fingers on my neck flex and stroke. I shudder when he breathes, his heat coils down into my t-shirt, running over my breasts like water. I lose the thread. I go over. I...

"Irene-" Such a beautiful broken sound.

He pushes my hands away. I hardly notice him doing it. I'm rigid and throbbing, hardly breathing as I cum. Do they call it 'the little death' because it makes every bit of you forget how to live? His thumb is so fast and I can feel my thighs quaking, the sound he gets from me is high, and reedy. His shirt bunched up in my grip is the only thing that's real. My head hits the back of the seat behind me. I can't control my eyes. His hand slides up behind my arm and he yanks me in close again. His mouth wide and breathless dragging down along my jaw. He pulls me further onto his hand and he rubs in so deep, so lovely, that my stomach muscles shake. It's in my head. It's in my hands. It's in... me. The bliss is probably written all over my face, it feels _so_ good I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't-

Suddenly I'm moving. Fingers on my back, others under my ass. He's lifts me up and pulls out from under me. Lays me down on the seat as I heave and quiver. He's leaning into the front seats, digging through the glove compartment. Falls back between my legs with a little square packet that he holds up for me to see, between two wet fingers. He's holding himself in his hand, stroking slowly as he licks his lips and waits for me. My cardigan is a pillow perfectly folded under my head. I nod, because words escape me.

I help him get me out of my underwear. I scoot up my butt and push down the waistband. With one hand he pulls the cheap white cotton down over my thighs. With the other he uses his teeth to open the condom packet. He rolls the rubber down onto himself before returning his attention to me. I can feel his knuckles run along my skin, and find my eyes closing as he pushes my thighs apart. One of his legs, bent up on the bench, presses tight in underneath my side, and my nails dig into the fabric of his jeans. I'm curled up in this tight space. I grab hold of my knees.

The tip of him slides into me. He stretches me slowly working his way inside. If there was space, my head might have rolled, but instead my eyes do it for me. He strokes at my thighs as he takes it inch by inch, and I can see his face - his overwhelmingly lovely face. Heavy lidded, watching himself enter me like he'll never do anything more important. It feels like finally being full after a life time of emptiness. Has it been a lifetime? I can hardly hear him breathing.

When his hips press to mine, when he's in all the way, his hands move away from me. He grabs hold of the handle above his head. Grips with white knuckles, the window ledge. I see the silhouette of his head tilt back, and his shoulders shudder. He rubs himself against my thighs, and I think he wishes he could be deeper. Then he looks down, and even with his face utterly in shadow, I know he's watching me. The pull out is achingly slow. My jaws gone slack, so I snap my teeth together. I feel of it...

A pace so careful, so breathtakingly languid, so purposefully thorough. Even though I've never told him, he knows that I haven't done this in a while. I've been faithful. I waited. I've been a good- I grab his wrist above my head and pull it down to my t-shirt. I bustle up the fabric and push his hand inside. His fingers stutter over my curled and rolled up stomach, his palm rubs heavy over my ribs, then he finds a breast and kneads. I want more than this. So much more of this.

I run the back of my knuckles over the tender skin at the top of his thighs. I imagine there are veins to see in the light. I trace his hips round, under the fabric of his shirt. He's so warm. Pressing himself in, then pulling slowly back out. I follow the line of his spine with heavy fingers and his shoulders shake when I do it. I stroke the soft skin at the top of his ass and find myself smiling.

"Irene..." I barely hear him before I pull his hips in fast and judder at the end of the beat.

I'm nodding, even though nothing has been said, and when he pulls out this time it's not as slow. I bring him in quick and when our skin smacks together I find that I'm gasping. After that, he's quick to take back the lead. Faster, surer, a heavy good fuck. I must be making sounds, because he's brought his head down over mine. Open mouths panting. I can smell the soda I gave him. The faintest tang of bitten wood. I hope I smell like blueberry jam. Or peppermint chewing gum. His hand on my chest moves to my hips, to grip the curve of my thigh. He's pulling me into meet him with each and every thrust. I'd almost forgotten how good sex could feel.

It's so hot in this car, the glass is steaming up. I grab hold of the window ledge above me with both of my hands. He fucks me. I wrap my legs around him, push down hard with my thighs. It makes him shift back on the bench, and gives me more room. The strange giggling hum he makes is delightful. Then he shifts his weight and moves me. He brings one of my legs up against his chest, my shin pressing onto shockingly cool ear, the tip of my shoe scraping the roof of his car. My other he pushes down, spreading me wide. I can feel the muscles ache, but as he pumps into me I find it's an ache that's easy to ignore. It's wonderful, every inch of him makes me shudder. I never want him to stop.

He's stroking my thighs and rolling his head. He's getting faster, hitting harder. I'm so _close_. He reaches down between us because he is too, and I know he doesn't want to go over alone. His fingers are quick and slick, he must have licked them. It doesn't take long for him to have me cumming. Cumming around him. My eyes turn up to the top of my head, every bit of me thrumming with mind-numbing bliss. He fucks me right through it, horrendously fast, carrying me along with him until he's spilling too. And I want it, all of it. I want all of this. I want all of him.

His orgasm, like him, is quiet but sure. He falls forward for a moment against my throbbing chest. Catching his breath. Taking the moment he needs. Then he's pulling away, pulling out, sliding back across the seat as he reseats his jeans. Back to the door, he stares at me. I've never felt so warm, and so cold all at once. I slide up to sit and look right back at him. Somehow, there's already a chasm. He paws the seat between us.

"Can I kiss you now?" He hasn't, not once through the whole thing.

Maybe he knew it would mean too much to me... to him? The tears are blinding.

"No." I hate myself, but I'll never be able to hate him.

I scrabble for the latch and the door spills me out onto my feet. I scoop up my cardigan and run away. The elevator takes me from him, and towards the rest of my life. The tears are still blinding. I left behind my underwear.


End file.
